The Curse of African Man

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‘Are they usually so quiet,’ I ask after depositing yet another silent teenager on the kerbside and driving away.

‘They usually talk all the time, I don’t understand,’ the Teenager exclaims. ‘It’s when they sit in the car with you…’ his voice trails away but I know the accusing eyes will be lingering.
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I wonder what it is about me that freezes these friends of his, that I’ve never met before, into silent frozen zombie-like beings as soon as they sit in my car. I gamely attempt to chat with them but it seems they can barely be asked to respond to any attempt at conversation.

I am cautious with one of them I’m aware that he writes a blog, and sure enough after our brief encounter he’s written about my attempt to chat.

I had driven the pair to their destination, unloaded their bikes, and then driven back to pick them up at the end of their cycle jaunt on one of the drier days of the summer.

‘I can’t believe she said, “Epic fail”’ he writes.

I don’t know whether to be pleased that at least the taxi driver was at least noticed;or embarrassed that I’d used two words that resulted in such an outcry.

Indeed, we did have a true “epic fail” with another friend of The Teenager. It was another bike ride that needed teenagers and bikes to be ferried to the start point.

There was one slight problem: this friend couldn’t ride.

J sat mutely in the car, his only contribution to the ambiance of sound was when he sneezed so loudly I was nearly propelled out of the window.

Naively I assumed that after just five minutes of our encouragement and expert tuition anybody could ride a bike. It was not the case. J just could not get his balance, he leaned over heavily as we took it in turns to run by his side holding the bike vertical.

It was exhausting. I’d no idea how heavy a seventeen year old boy could be. J’s weight was astonishing as he leaned onto us.

Still we persevered and after about an hour he was beginning to make some progress on the smooth tarmac of the car park.

African Man had watched us.

‘Hey come here, let me show you how it’s done.’ this stranger said striding over to us with a manly swagger. ‘I’ll show you how we teach kids to ride a bike in Africa.’

I was panting with exhaustion at that point so was hopeful that this strong looking man could help. He seemed confident that he could. Perhaps there was a new technique that I could learn.

He took hold of the handlebars and manoeuvred the bike away from the smooth tarmac and onto the gritty short incline of the overspill car park.

J’s eyes were wide with fear.

‘You’re not going to let go of him are you?’ I asked nervously.

‘No,’ African Man said sonorously.

J took that moment to lean heavily onto this stranger who gasped under the sudden weight. African Man looked up at me in surprise and with sudden comprehension as to how hard it had been for me to support J in his cycling attempts. African Man was visibly sagging too.

‘This is how we teach children how to ride in Africa,’ African Man declared.

I had visions of neophyte cyclists under a hot African sun being taken to the nearest hill and then being launched down rough sandy tracks; and how they would triumphantly ride on towards a glowing horizon to the sounds of whoops and cheers of their barefoot running companions.

I was hopeful.

It didn’t go well. African Man stumbled under J’s weight as J instantly leaned perilously over once more.

‘That’s how we do it,’ African Man declared backing away from his failure to keep J upright for more than a second.

African Man scurried away defeated.

When African Man had left we tried it again from a lower part of the rise.

J managed a short distance unsupported and we cheered.

We returned to the same place and set J up once again.

For four seconds all was well, then J swerved. The front wheel twisted, the bike buckled and he fell heavily under it onto the rough gravel sending up an orange cloud of dust from the ground.

J looked at me accusingly as I helped him to his feet.

‘You were doing it, ‘You were doing it,’ I said, but all words of encouragement were lost on him.
His jeans were ripped and torn, his arms peppered with blood and gravel and his hands were dirtied and ripped by the sharp stones. J’s bleeding wounds had dirt deeply embedded in the cuts.

We cleaned him up as best as we could.

I had to leave them at that point for a meeting, and I hoped that with me gone that they’d try again.

J looked at me as if it was all my fault and I was now running away from them too.

‘I’ll see you at the crossroads then,’ I cheerfully said as I drove away. J looked at me darkly.

Later that afternoon at the meeting point three miles away, I picked them up. I’d hoped to see the two of them riding their bikes triumphantly.

When I first saw them in the distance it didn’t look good. They were both pushing their bikes.
I discovered that they had walked all the way pushing their bikes. J had not got back on after his fall.

J said not a word as I drove him back to his home.

Why did you let African Man get involved?’ The Teenager asked with annoyance once his bloodied friend had been left on the kerbside outside his home. ‘We were doing all right up to then.’

I too regretted the involvement of African Man.

‘Epic Fail?’ I asked as I felt the painful aching of muscles in my arms and legs from supporting J’s weight.

‘Epic Fail,’ The Teenager concurred.

We drove home in silence.
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